


wanting to ask you about the weather on that side

by shikae (39smooth)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Divergent Fusion, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Requited Love, Secret Relationship, Separations, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4261110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/39smooth/pseuds/shikae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do I even dare use the word love?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	wanting to ask you about the weather on that side

**Author's Note:**

> divergent!au. 
> 
> originally written march 2014.

It’s one of those sticky nights, air damp and just a little too warm, floating down upon the sector, clinging to the concrete walls of the houses. Jongdae’s robes are baggy, but the humidity bogs them down, glues the fabric to the skin of his back, his arms, his chest, slicking the hair at the nape of his neck. He catches a breeze from the rooftop of his quarterage, clambers up unslightly, making sure not to wake anyone up as his foot catches several times on the little clefts chipped off from the corner, fingers curling solidly into wide-enough fissures.  
  
The stillness is almost unnerving, here in the Abnegation compound, and Jongdae longs for the vigour, the noise of Candor, longs for the debate and the discussion, longs just for sound again, anything, just anything, compared to the soft whooshing of clothes-lines below and the wind sweeping his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing wrists just slightly thinner than before he’d let slip a drop of himself into his new life, his chosen life, his faction.  
  
“Hey,” comes a voice, and Jongdae nearly falls off the ledge in shock, but the voice is familiar, is a soothing reminder to his ears, and he whirls around to come face to face with Baekhyun, crouched down beside him. “You really need to be more aware of your surroundings.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you’re not supposed to be here.” Jongdae pats the bit of concrete beside him, though, scoots over a little even though he knows Baekhyun’s gonna end up pressed right into his side anyway, and he watches Baekhyun swing his legs over easily, black boots kicking silently over the edge, hands gripping the raised slab of plaster.  
  
His knuckles are bruised, battered, bloody.  
  
Jongdae runs his thumb over them without thinking, and watches the way Baekhyun’s eyes narrow slightly, the way his lips part just a hair’s breadth, the way the veins in his neck tense. He does not like showing pain. He does not like showing weakness.  
  
Jongdae hooks his fingers gently around Baekhyun’s wrist, lifts Baekhyun’s hand to his mouth, and murmurs a kiss into the curve of Baekhyun’s thumb, “You look terrible.”  
  
Baekhyun laughs, a soft little laugh, the laugh he keeps for Jongdae, and only him, Jongdae hopes, only him and nobody else, because who else would listen for the huff of air between teeth, the almost-sharp burst of brightness that starts somewhere in his chest, the laugh that Jongdae wants to keep hidden in the palm of his hands and in the live-wires that run from the tips of his fingers to the thump of his heart, just for him, for him and no other.  
  
“I knew you would say that.” Baekhyun tugs his hand away, threads it easily through the spaces between Jongdae’s own fingers, tucks their palms together, warmly, loosely, as if they’d never let go in the first place, as if they’d never let themselves be pulled apart by their own decisions in the first place. “I miss you.”  
  
“Yeah,” says Jongdae, and suddenly he finds that his throat won’t function the way it’s supposed to, suddenly the air cuts off, suddenly the words won’t come and when they do, they’re scratchy and as sticky as the night surrounding them. “I miss you too,” he whispers, and the wind carries his voice, even though his face is turned away.  
  
Baekhyun’s fingers come up to rest under his chin, coaxing Jongdae to look at him, and when Jongdae does, Baekhyun leans in, presses their lips together, kisses him for the first time in a long time. It feels like it has been years since they last touched like this, since Jongdae last made contact with anyone for that matter, in any form.  
  
Baekhyun no longer kisses leisurely, like he has all the time in the world, but he kisses with a strange sort of desperation, a sort of distress behind the way he tucks his hand along the angle of Jongdae’s jaw and thumbs at the corner of his mouth, a heaviness that Jongdae can’t place, and it breaks Jongdae for what it is, and for what it might be.  
  
Jongdae catches Baekhyun’s lower lip with his teeth, licks over a still-healing cut, and swallows the soft whine that Baekhyun exhales. “We could get caught.”  
  
“I don’t care,” says Baekhyun, kissing Jongdae again, and again, and again, each time attempting to pull away completely, but always coming back, never really able to tug himself away from Jongdae, and Jongdae doesn’t want him to, doesn’t want him to go, doesn’t want him to go back to Dauntless, doesn’t want him to leave Jongdae. “You know me,” he breathes, resting his forehead against Jongdae’s, eyes shut, “I’ve never cared.”  
  
“Baekhyun,” says Jongdae, mouth moving to form the syllables of Baekhyun’s name, over and over and over, until it’s just a mess of sound, of swallowed noise that Baekhyun echoes, in the way he presses closer to Jongdae, “I—“  
  
“I know,” says Baekhyun, and his mouth is twisted in a smile that doesn’t belong on his face, that sad kind of smile that only comes with a sad kind of knowing, knowing something that could change many, many things. And Jongdae knows that Baekhyun does, he knows Baekhyun keeps his secrets locked up inside him, key tossed and padlock soldered, but Jongdae knows Baekhyun, knows him almost better than he knows himself.  
  
And he knows Baekhyun will never divulge whatever is burdening him. He does not like showing pain. He does not like showing weakness.  
  
Jongdae is his only weakness.  
  
“You should go,” says Jongdae, but he tightens his grip on Baekhyun’s hand, and feels Baekhyun do the same, “you should go before someone sees you.”  
  
“Yeah, alright.” Baekhyun doesn’t get up, but he presses his face into the curve of Jongdae’s shoulder, and says, “just. Give me a minute.” His breath fans out against Jongdae’s skin, a soft shudder. “I just want to remember you again.”  
  
Jongdae’s hand does not shake as it ghosts up Baekhyun’s spine, a commendable effort. “You mean you’ve forgotten me already?”  
  
“Of course not.” Baekhyun’s smile this time is one of amusement. “How could I ever forget you? Kim Jongdae, my best friend, my oldest friend.”  
  
“Is that all?” asks Jongdae teasingly, but the words tumble out of his mouth, with more honesty behind them than required, remnants of his old faction slipping back in, and Baekhyun lifts his head, meets Jongdae’s gaze straight on.  
  
“Of course not,” he replies, and the words are genuine, so genuine that they almost hurt to hear, “Kim Jongdae. My best friend, my oldest friend.” His eyes are bright. “Do I even dare use the word love?”  
  
“Such a strong word,” says Jongdae quietly, “and we’re still so young. What do we know of love?”  
  
“Nothing,” says Baekhyun, “but I know you, and that’s enough.”  
  
The moment hangs between them like the stifling air, though now Jongdae cannot determine which it is that causes his lungs to fill suddenly in a drawn-out inhale, the weather or the way Baekhyun is looking at him.  
  
Jongdae thinks, he might be looking at Baekhyun the exact same way.  
  
The moon has floated down the skies a steady distance by the time Baekhyun sees fit to remove himself from Jongdae, standing to his feet. “I’ll visit again,” promises Baekhyun, and Jongdae wants to tell him no, wants Baekhyun to stay safe, but he knows Baekhyun gets up to even more trouble on his own already, and he just settles for adjusting Baekhyun’s jacket, the same way he used to back then.  
  
“Bye,” says Jongdae, and he rests his hand on Baekhyun’s shoulder, squeezing lightly, “don’t be too much of a dumbass, okay?”  
  
“I’ll try,” says Baekhyun, shooting him a charming smile, and for a second, he looks like he’s wavering between kissing Jongdae goodbye and just leaving, but in the end, Jongdae pushes him away playfully, knowing that it’d be impossible to pry them apart if they came together again. “I’ll see you.”  
  
“Yeah,” says Jongdae, and he watches Baekhyun silently climb down the side of the house, watches Baekhyun take the most careful steps across the compound, watches Baekhyun turn to shoot him a last glance, and waves at Baekhyun’s smile when he catches Jongdae watching him. It isn’t long until he loses sight of Baekhyun in the weaving maze of houses.  
  
He imagines Baekhyun climbing deftly up the old railway bridge, teeth gritted and the cuts on his fingers reopening as he runs to fling himself into the door of the always moving train. He imagines Baekhyun curling his arms around his knees, head drooping as he pants lightly, sitting on the floor as the compartment rumbles around him. He imagines Baekhyun tiptoeing into his dormitory, shrugging off his jacket and sliding under the covers, falling asleep immediately.  
  
Jongdae blinks, once, twice, thrice, and he glances upwards. It is almost morning. Time for another day. Time to return to the new life he has chosen.  
  
But, he thinks, as he shimmies back down the corner, as much as he loves what he knows he can do for the people around him now, he loves Baekhyun even more, and it is with a soft sigh, and a gentle repress of emotion, that Jongdae quietly reenters his new home, quietly steps up the stairs, and quietly lowers himself back into bed.


End file.
